


Lone Wolf

by PepperF



Series: Diego whump [29]
Category: The Umbrella Academy (TV)
Genre: Angst, Diego is about 22 in this, Gen, Pre-show, Whumptober 2020, a real low point, actual whump this time, at least his mom still loves him, post-Academy post-police academy post-Eudora
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-29
Updated: 2020-10-29
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:40:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27265120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PepperF/pseuds/PepperF
Summary: Sir Reginald is by the bar, mixing his favorite after-dinner cocktail: an excellent martini, very dry, one olive. He glances up, surprise and then anger flickering briefly across his face before all emotion is firmly reined in once more. He turns away, focusing on his preparations."I believe that I have made myself perfectly clear already, Number Two: you are no longer welcome here. Kindly depart."
Series: Diego whump [29]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1951318
Comments: 6
Kudos: 25
Collections: Whumptober 2020





	Lone Wolf

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Bethany, once again!

The doors to the Umbrella Academy are never locked. It might be considered hubris, until you recall the fact that it has never been robbed, that assassins or armed raiders have never crossed the threshold (at least, not as yet). Perhaps it is the supreme self-confidence of its owner, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, that somehow radiates out and ensures the security of the building. Or perhaps it is simply that everyone assumes the risks are not worth the potential rewards.

The handle turns, and the door opens silently on well-oiled hinges onto an empty hall. The house is quiet, but the crackle of a fireplace and the clink of glass against glass indicate that the library is occupied. Slow, halting footsteps turn in that direction, pausing to lean on the archway entrance, in the shadow of two vast bookshelves.

Sir Reginald is by the bar, mixing his favorite after-dinner cocktail: an excellent martini, very dry, one olive. He glances up, surprise and then anger flickering briefly across his face before all emotion is firmly reined in once more. He turns away, focusing on his preparations.

"I believe that I have made myself perfectly clear already, Number Two: you are no longer welcome here. Kindly depart."

But the footsteps persist, continuing across the room until Diego—legally known as Number Two—is standing before the man he thinks of as his father, a man he's not seen in five long, eventful years.

"Please," he gasps—and pitches forward. He's unconscious before he knows whether or not his father will catch him.

\---

"Diego," says a soothing voice, bringing him back to consciousness. 

He moans, and forces his eyes to open. "Mom."

She strokes a cool hand across his forehead. "I'm here. You're in the infirmary."

So the old bastard decided to help, after all. Probably didn't want to deal with the mess of one of his 'children' dying on his doorstep. "Thanks, mom."

"There are some procedures we need to do, it would be better if you're unconscious. Okay?"

It's not like he's in a position to argue, but it doesn't matter because he trusts her implicitly, so he nods tiredly, and breathes in when she sets a mask over his face. It's not the best way to knock him out, but she doesn't use needles on him unless he's unconscious.

He knows how badly he's wounded, it's the only reason he dragged himself here after all this time—well, that and the bitter knowledge that hospitalization is an expense he can't afford. So, just in case he doesn't have another chance, he mouths, _love you, mom._

Her smile is the last thing he sees.

\---

It's like swimming up from deep underwater. The words take a while to filter through to his brain, and there's the sensation of pain lurking on the horizon, waiting to make itself known—but thankfully still too far away for him to feel yet.

"—serum may be Diego's best hope."

"No. Absolutely not, Grace."

"Of course, sir." And then, after a moment, "But would you not—"

" _No_. The situation does not merit that level of intervention. I do not wish to hear another word on the subject, do you understand?"

Grace sighs. "Yes, Sir Reginald."

She adjusts the oxygen mask for a better seal, and Diego feels himself being dragged back under. 

_Guess I'll have to settle for second-best_ , he thinks. _Like always._

\---

Diego is pleasantly surprised to wake up the next day. He turns his head to look around, finding that he's still in the infirmary, but alone. He's covered with a sheet to his waist, and he's got a saline drip in his arm, which he's not going to think about. He's been patched and glued and sewn back together, and his fingers have been splinted—and despite the odd nothing-y feeling of strong painkillers, absolutely everything hurts. He makes one attempt at getting up, before collapsing back with a groan.

On cue, possibly because she's been waiting outside like she sometimes does, Mom sweeps in with a cheerful, "Good morning, dear! How are you feeling?"

"Terrible," Diego admits. "When can I get out of here?"

She shoots him an exasperated look as she checks his dressings. "You children are always so impatient," she chides. "You need to rest up. Sir Reginald has given permission for you to remain here—"

"Oh no. No way," says Diego, again struggling to sit up. "I'm not taking his _charity_." A foggy memory rises from the night before: _The situation does not merit..._ He can't remember the context, but the sentiment was clear enough.

Grace pushes him back down with absolutely no effort. "And I would take it kindly if you do not ruin my good work," she scolds, with a smile. "Will you please stay and recover—for me?"

Put like that, he can't refuse—and he's secretly grateful, because he knows he's not actually fit to go anywhere. He can't imagine walking down the stairs right now, never mind surviving the next few days on his own. The academy—the police one—doesn't want him, and it's not like he can ask Eudora for help anymore. This is all he's got. "Okay. But only as long as absolutely necessary. And I won't see him."

She pauses, as if assimilating this. "Some quiet bedrest will do you good," she agrees. "We'll keep you in here for today, and if you're feeling better, you can move to your room tomorrow." She pats down the bandage she was adjusting. "There. It will be nice to have one of you home to look after." She leans over and presses a kiss to his forehead, like when he was small. "Get some rest. I'll make you some broth."

"Okay. Hey, mom?"

"Yes, Diego?"

"Thanks. For taking care of me."

"Silly boy. You don't need to thank me for that. That's what a mother is for."

Her smile warms the hollow, hungry place inside of him, the weakest part of him, the reason—he's pretty sure—that his father never thinks he's worthy. But he nearly died, so he figures he's allowed to be weak. 

Just this once.


End file.
